


find myself in you

by fountainhead



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Also known as the fic in which Mousa stays sexy and Jan can’t keep it in his pants, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Mousa is angry sometimes and Jan is a little too excited by it, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 21:10:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14410632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fountainhead/pseuds/fountainhead
Summary: Mousa's little frown deepens and he shrugs Jan’s arm off just a tad more brusquely than usual, gives him a nudge in his middle that’s just a little too rough to be friendly, and then walks away to resume his position in the field a few yards behind where Jan is standing, rooted to the ground.Jan’s hand unconsciously goes to his middle and he rubs at it to soothe the little ache that's bloomed from Mousa’s rough handling. Fuck, he thinks, following Mousa’s retreat to his position with fervent eyes.





	find myself in you

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by and dedicated to Mousa Dembele's thighs, which are clearly a gift from god. Also, Jan Vertonghen's lovely little self deserves an honourable mention.

Jan’s making a steady run up the left of the pitch and his eyes are so focused on the rapid movement of the ball a few yards ahead of him that the jeering and hysterical screaming of the home crowd is merely a steady hum in his ears. The November air is nippy but he hardly registers it, what with the thrum of hot blood beneath his skin. The vague irrititation that’d risen up inside his chest when he’d witnessed Mousa getting knocked about by Ramos during his sprint for the ball has mostly faded now, being replaced with a surge of adrenaline: the kind of surge that indicated a final high before the descent of a crushing fatigue at the end of ninety minutes. He’ll make good use of this, he thinks. He’d be damned if he let another player in a black kit nick the ball from his feet once more. They’re two goals up, but Jan’s learnt from intimate and painful experience that two goals is not nearly good enough of a buffer, especially against a team like Real Madrid.

His attention is snapped up by the sudden and frantic run of a white shirt, one of their own, towards Madrid’s half of the pitch. It’s Mousa, looking to be running on what is probably one of the last couple of bursts of his energy, and the stiff set of his shoulders and unwavering speed are nothing new, but what is odd is the specific direction of his sprint. He’s heading straight for Kroos without slowing even a little and Jan watches, while increasing the pace of his own jog into a half-sprint, as Mousa determinedly kicks Kroos’ feet out from underneath him and smoothly takes control of the ball. It’s one of those moments where Jan revels at the sheer strength and solidity of him: Mousa doesn’t even stagger when he’s taking on Kroos, who’s not a small guy by anyone’s standards.

Jan’s got a bad feeling about this though, and of course, he’s proven right when Mousa takes the action straight to Ramos, who doesn't see it coming one bit. He feels vaguely vindicated as he watches his teammate aim a solid and painful-looking kick at Ramos’ raised foot, just as Ramos comes in for the tackle. It doesn’t look pretty, even from all the way over here, but Jan can’t help the littl burst of pride that erupts inside of him as he watches it go down. Mousa doesn’t lose control of the ball even once in all this time: Jan has seen him when he’s relentless and determined, and this is him in peak form.

While he jogs up, he watches Mousa getting talked to, or rather talked _at_ , by the referee, who's digging in his pocket for what will probably be a yellow card, but all Jan can think is, _he’s hot when he’s mad_. Painfully so. Mousa’s smooth skin is already gleaming with sweat and his white shorts are hiked up on his left thigh just the slightest bit. But what really does it for Jan and causes a sudden and embarrassing throb of arousal somewhere deep inside of him is the sheer ire that’s distorting Mousa’s beautiful face.

He’s clearly irritated enough to look over his shoulder a couple of times and glare daggers at Ramos, but he’s not at the point where he’d slag off the referee and risk a second yelloq. After all, he _has_ managed to get his revenge for Ramos' assault on him earlier. It’s the little twist of his mouth and the furrow in his eyebrows that seal the deal for Jan. They’re three goals in and they need to keep their lead. Jan feels vaguely guilty for having inappropriate thoughts about Mousa at such an inopportune time. Not guilty enough to not sneak an arm around Mousa and squeeze his waist tightly when he reaches him, though.

Mousa smells like freshly mown grass and the distinctly masculine musk of sweat surrounds him: they’re both aphrodisiacs to Jan and the spike of arousal in him only intensifies when Mousa turns around in surprise to face him and directs his dangerously furrowed brows at Jan.

His full mouth is in a sulky little moue and he’s saying something to Jan but Jan can only squeeze Mousa’s waist a little bit tighter and bask in the sheer heat that Mousa is emitting. He watches the movement of Mousa’s lips for just a little too long perhaps, because Mousa clearly picks up on the fact that he hasn’t been listening to a word of his rage-fuelled rant, probably about Ramos.

His angry frown deepens and he shrugs Jan’s arm off just a tad more brusquely than usual, gives Jan a nudge in the middle that’s just a little too rough to be friendly, and then walks away to resume his position in the field a few yards behind where Jan's still standing. Jan’s hand unconsciously goes to his middle and he rubs at it to soothe the little ache caused by Mousa’s rough handling. _Fuck_ , he thinks, following Mousa’s retreat to his position with fervent eyes. The back of Mousa's calves are a perfect shade of caramel and shiny enough to justify Jan’s unhealthy fixation on them at the moment.

Eric’s distant shout and the resuming of play breaks the moment and Jan shakes his head hard to knock any stray, untimely thoughts out of his head and jogs back to his own position.

Everyone looks pretty pleased with themselves after the whistle blows, especially Dele, whose voice he can hear most prominently in the dressing room, in tandem with Eric's. Jan gravitates towards Mousa and Toby, as he usually does. They’re already deep in conversation when Jan reaches them, and when Jan nods a tired hi to the two of them and hooks his chin over Mousa’s shoulder casually, they barely acknowledge him. Mousa’s calmed down from the incident, but he’s clearly not completely appeased.

“The rat bastard,” he’s telling Toby, “I didn’t even hit him hard enough for him to go down like that.”

“C’mon Mous, you know what he’s like, you should be happy that you stopped yourself there.” Toby reaches out to ruffle Mousa’s hair affectionately, but Mousa knocks his hand away before it can reach its target.

“Just wait, if I see him again on the pitch, I’m not gonna be this nice.” His voice is low and almost a growl and Jan digs his chin into Mousa’s shoulder and plasters himself more firmly to the damp line of his back so that he can feel the rumble of it against his own chest.

“Get off of me, Jan.” Mousa is clearly irritable and elbows him dangerously close to his crotch, so Jan steps away with his hands held up in surrender. When Toby walks across the locker room to find Michel a couple of minutes later, he draws close to Mousa once again. Mousa has leaned back against one of the polished lockers, and the frown and grumpy set of his eyebrows remain. His eyes are bright and beautiful as always though, and he looks like he’s in deep thought. Jan takes the time to give him a once-over: a dull flush rests high on his cheeks and his sooty eyelashes are dotted sparsely with sweat, making them seem even longer. When Jan's gaze drifts down to his parted mouth, Mousa clears his throat deliberately.

“Yes?” he asks, and Jan just stares back at him dumbly because all he can think at this very moment is that he wants to lay his hands on every inch of Mousa’s skin, wreck him until that sexy furrow of his brows smooths out and all that emerge from that full mouth are echoes of Jan’s name. He opens his mouth and closes it again. Opens it once more and then gives up.

Mousa’s confused eyes grow suspicious when Jan takes a step forward and reaches out to lean a deceptively casual forearm against the locker by the side of Mousa’s head, boxing him in on one side. He leans in for a whiff of Mousa’s scent again, and then nuzzles the underside of his chin briefly, so briefly that no one in the locker room would have had caught it.

“What’s wrong with you today, Vertonghen?” Mousa’s eyes are confused, but fond nevertheless, and he gives Jan a little look that he saves just for him: warm and just that side of affectionate.

“You’ll find out tonight.” His breath on the sensitive inside of Mousa’s ear elicits a full body shiver from him, and Jan smirks just a little to himself. “Don’t make any plans.”

When Jan pulls back, he puts some distance between them again and acts as if he hadn’t just done that. He's pleased to see that the flush on Mousa’s cheek is a bit deeper and the furrow in his brows less intense. He watches as Mousa’s tongue swipes out to lick his bottom lip in a vaguely puzzled movement and has to struggle not to groan. He’s only just realized how keyed up he is, from the adrenaline from the match yes, but more from seeing Mousa’s irked and vaguely threatening expressions. His shorts are getting a little tight and so he takes a couple more steps away from Mousa just to make sure he's not going to reach out for Mousa again and embarrass himself in front of his teammates. Toby has already made his way back and he levels a mischievous and knowing gaze at both Mousa and Jan, which causes them both to flush and look away from each other abruptly.

“Get a room,” he snickers, just loud enough that Christian looks over from a couple of lockers away, and Jan takes this as his cue to exit the scene. But not before letting Toby know with a little wink that yes, indeed, he will be getting a room. More than a room in fact. A room that came with an angry and ridiculously attractive Mousa Dembele.

He can feel the heat of Mousa’s perplexed gaze on him as he turns around and makes his trek to the showers. It feels good. Maybe just a little too good. He discreetly adjusts the front of his sweat-soaked shorts and hopes Christian is too involved in his lively conversation with Harry to notice.

 

-

 

Jan feels smug, and rightly so, when he steps into the Wembley carpark only to find Mousa waving to him to get his attention from a far corner, beside where Jan’s Audi is parked. He'd driven Mousa to training today since he'd stayed over, and short of calling for an Uber, Jan was pretty much Mousa's only ride back. Jan had been pretty sure Mousa wouldn't be disagreeable to coming back to his place tonight, at least not if he played his cards right. He’d searched for Mousa right after his shower, only to be met with a couple of weary, familiar faces, but no Mousa.

 _Could he have been angry enough to hitch a ride back from someone else_ , Jan wonders, and a little disappointed pang makes itself known in his chest. A grinning Toby informs him that Mousa had showered already and stepped out. His smile is knowing enough that Jan's hopes are renewed. Toby then waves him off with a solid pat on his shoulder and a widening of his grin, and Jan hadn’t known whether to be mortified at his own obvious behaviour or to feel a little cocky. Toby knew what was going to go down tonight.

“Excited to get home?” Jan asks now, waggling his eyebrows, after he’s jogged over to Mousa, who’s exchanged his sweaty gear for a half-zipped up, thick jacket atop a loose white t-shirt and worn trackpants that look ridiculously comfortable and soft. His muscled shoulders are accentuated by the cut of the padded jacket and just a hint of delectable collarbone peeks out from the relaxed collar of the shirt underneath it. His beard looks impossibly soft, as it always does.

Mousa sneers at him a little, clearly not having snapped out of his moody spell just as of yet, and as quick as that, Jan is all geared up and thrumming with excitement again. He reaches out and pinches a soft, bearded cheek just to aggravate Mousa a bit more and it works perhaps a little too well because Mousa makes a feint towards him, hands balled up into fists. Jan ducks, slaps Mousa’s ass once and makes a beeline towards the driver’s door because he might find Mousa sexy when he’s mad, but he doesn’t want to end up dead right after a great match.

As he opens his door and slides into the driver's seat, he watches Mousa roll his eyes exaggeratedly and then resign himself to it. _Success_ , Jan thinks, _he's coming home with me_.

After Mousa closes the passenger door with more force than strictly necessary (Jan winces at loud thud that ensues), silence falls upon them. Jan hums along to a dance beat on the radio as he drives on autopilot, hands resting on the wheel casually. He watches Mousa from the corner of his eye.

Mousa is slumped back against the leather seat, thighs spread and posture relaxed for the most part. He’s still vaguely aggravated though, or at least not in the best of moods, because his lips are still twisted downwards and he’s drumming his fingers on the side of the seat – something Mousa never usually does, he’s much too focused for that. Jan tries not to be too distracted by the dark brown of a nipple showing from underneath the almost-translucent white t-shirt where his jacket lies unzipped or the wide, bulky thighs that are pressed up against the seat. Luckily, Mousa doesn’t seem to have picked up on Jan’s shameless staring because he’s quiet for the rest of the way back home. It suits Jan just fine, although he has to jerk and make a hurried swerve to keep the vehicle from brushing against the stray limb of a tree because of his ogling.

Mousa remains quiet even after both of them toe off their trainers, shed their jackets and step into the living room. Jan smiles at the contemplative expression on his face, but his contentment is quickly replaced by a sharp spike of lust when Mousa slumps onto the sofa sideways, his t-shirt lifting up to showcase a wide strip of toned, brown belly and his thighs flaring as they press into the arm of the sofa. His eyes, narrow and dark from thought, turn to Jan and Jan sucks in a breath when Mousa quirks a small, easy smile at him. He loves that smile.

“Ramos got you riled up a bit there, eh?” He has no idea why he’s brought the touchy subject up again, especially when he knows Mousa has just begun to put the issue to rest. But when Mousa’s smile fades abruptly, his nostrils flare and he sits up abruptly, Jan thinks privately that he knows exactly why. The narrowing of Mousa’s eyes and the subtle clenching of his right hand into a fist make Jan excited in ways that definitely aren’t normal.

“I told you, next time I see him on the pitch, I swear…” His words come out in a low growl and Jan’s dick jumps a little in the confines of his briefs – he’s shameless, but since he’s already started this, he may as well continue to exploit the situation.

“Mousa,” he drawls, plopping onto the couch beside his aggravated partner and slinging a heavy arm around his shoulders, “What exactly can you do? He’s in Madrid, the ref isn’t exactly going to do us any extra favours.”

This seems to do the trick. Mousa’s head whips abruptly to face Jan, and his eyes are angry and dark. They’re beautiful, Jan thinks, just like the dimple in his cheek that’s accentuated by the furious twist of his lips. He looks good enough to eat.

“Whose side are you on, you dick?” The flush from before rises to his cheeks once again, barely visible beneath golden skin, and Jan laps the vision up.

“The side that lets me see you like this.” Jan tucks his head into the crook of Mousa’s neck and shoulder and sniffs to get a whiff of Mousa’s shower gel and cologne and beneath these, the familiar and irresistible scent of his skin. When Mousa shoves his head away irritably, he laughs, because Mousa being grouchy isn’t only sexy as hell, it’s pretty adorable too.

“What’re you going on about, you nut? Did you shake a few screws loose during the game?” Mousa’s voice is gruff and annoyed, and Jan pushes his resisting hands aside to lean into Mousa’s neck again, this time laving his tongue across the line of collarbone that’s visible. Mousa starts with a shaky breath and then punches him on the shoulder. Hard. Hard enough that Jan feels the ache of it in a straight line down his shoulder to his elbow. He snorts, rubbing at the ache for a couple of seconds before reaching out and turning Mousa around by the shoulders to face him fully.

“God, you’re so fucking sexy when you’re angry, Mous.” He’s too keyed up to play games with Mousa anymore, even if it’d been fun to wind him up.

Mousa clearly hadn’t seen that one coming. His mouth gapes a little bit and the ire in his eyes is replaced by incredulity for just a second. Then, the ire is back again with a renewed intensity.

“You fuck, you think this is funny? I’m angry, Jan, and you’re not even taking me seriously.” He shoves Jan’s shoulder hard enough that Jan loses his balance and has to clutch at the sofa to keep from falling back onto it. Incredibly, he’s even more turned on by the Mousa's little aggressive tics, which he doesn't usually witness. He’s not going to risk aggravating him more though, because he doesn’t want to sleep alone tonight, and he definitely wants to touch Mousa more than anything.

“No, no, Mous,” he waves his arms placatingly and leans in to rub his nose against Mousa’s. The motion makes Mousa go cross-eyed and Jan snorts a little before continuing. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.” He grabs Mousa’s limp hand and brings it to his trackpants, sliding it down until Mousa can feel the bulge of his arousal.

“What?” Mousa’s eyebrows hike up and he stares at Jan for a moment like he’s a new species of freak, but then his eyes crinkle and he smiles, small and exasperated. “You weirdo.”

Jan takes this as his chance and leans in to give Mousa’s tempting clavicle a little bite, which earns him a low sound, and then leans back up to kiss him hard. Mousa seems to be overwhelmed by the immediate intensity of the kiss, but he gradually eases into it and nips at Jan’s lower lip to ease him out of the frenzy. It does exactly the opposite and Jan pants into his mouth, one hand clutching at Mousa’s firm waist and the other threading into his soft, soft hair. It’s going too slow now, and when Jan remembers the growling tone that Mousa had taken with Toby earlier and the way he’d determinedly tripped up Ramos, he keens a little in his throat and nudges Mousa’s chin up roughly to bite at his neck. Mouse takes in a sharp breath and moans lowly, clutching Jan by the hair in return and trying to press himself up against him, best as he can.

Jan’s too focused on alternately inhaling the fragrant skin of Mousa’s neck and nipping at it hard enough to redden it, to really notice anything amiss until he finds Mousa almost in his lap, his thick thighs on either side of Jan’s waist. His hands are helpless to move anywhere but to those delectable, sinewy thighs and when he massages them, feeling the give of Mousa’s tense muscles, Mousa shudders and yanks Jan’s head up to kiss him roughly. Mousa shifts just a couple of inches to the right and Jan jerks up and groans because his dick is pressed up against the hot line of Mousa’s own now and it feels so incredibly good. He thinks that if he doesn’t get both of their clothes off, he’s going to come in his pants like a teenager.

He breaks the kiss and moves his hands in a continuous, warm line up to Mousa’s perfectly solid waist, before getting distracted by the same brown nipples that he’d noticed in the car, this time obviously peaked and brushing up against the white t-shirt. Jan ducks down to bite at one, because how can he not, and he smirks against the nipple when he hears Mousa groan loudly and feels his thighs tighten against Jan’s waist. The pressure of those thighs on either side of his waist is incredible, so incredible, that he momentarily has visions of sliding his dick in between Mousa’s slick, warm thighs, feeling them clamp down around his dick, relishing in the warm heat and slide of it all and getting off just like that. It’s a great image, and one that makes Jan even harder, but it’ll have to wait because he has different plans for Mousa today.

He sucks Mousa’s other nipple into his mouth, through his thin t-shirt and laves over it. When he leans back to inspect his work, he’s pleased to see that the translucent white t-shirt has become nearly transparent right above his nipples. For good measure, he leans in and nips hard at the nipple, relishing in Mousa’s yelp. He gets a slap upside the head for his efforts.

“That hurts, fucker.” Mousa’s voice is gravelly and irritated, but even he can’t hide the need that decorates it plainly. He yanks Jan’s head up to catch his lips in a slow, deep kiss, and grinds down at the same time, which makes Jan’s hands spasm on either side of his waist. Jan grips Mousa harder and gives back as good as he’s getting. They’re grinding up against each other, the friction becoming almost unbearable, when Jan carefully turns them around and pushes Mousa down along the horizontal line of the sofa, bracing himself over him with forearms on either side of Mousa’s head.

Mousa barely registers the shift, his thighs still clamped around Jan’s waist firmly and his hands carded through Jan’s hair. He blindly reaches for Jan’s mouth with his own, eyes closed and lashes curling up so enticingly that Jan wants to come all over them and see the dark ink of them splattered with white.

Jan obliges him with a kiss that’s all sharp edges and bite, and when Mousa bites down hard on his lower lip, eyes drifting open to reveal blown pupils, Jan can’t hold himself back anymore. He lifts one forearm off the sofa, balancing himself precariously with the other, and with a steady hand, grasps Mousa’s throat with enough force that Mousa’s eyes widen and a low groan escapes his throat. _That got his attention_ , Jan thinks, satisfied. When Jan slides the hand down to pinch at his nipples roughly, Mousa yanks him down until he loses balance and falls right on top of him, pressed to Mousa from chest to thighs. Mousa doesn't even flinch at the impact or at taking Jan's full weight. He's warm and solid beneath Jan and it's an exquisite feeling.

Their dicks rub together with an agonizing friction and both of them groan at the pressure. Mousa’s thighs are pressing almost painfully against either side of his waist, but Jan welcomes the pressure. He thinks he’s going to have a smudge of bruises around the circumference of his waist tomorrow, but the thought, far from dissuading him, only makes him frenzied and desperate. He yanks up Mousa’s t-shirt just as Mousa’s hands grasp his ass roughly to push their dicks together once more. When he separates from Mousa to tug his t-shirt up and off of him and then to yank his own t-shirt off, Mousa whines at the separation and bucks up against him, hard enough that they nearly tumble off the sofa.

“Easy, easy,” he laughs and shifts them back into a comfortable position. Mousa palms at his dick right then though, and his laugh cuts off and turns into a painfully aroused groan, his hips jerking wildly, which in turn, elicits a devious little smirk from Mousa.

“Easy,” Mousa mocks, “Easy, Jan.” His eyes are dark and mocking and underneath all of that, irritated enough that Jan’s dick pulses with a renewed heat. He makes quick work of Mousa’s trackpants and briefs, and then his own, moaning when his skin meets the expanse of Mousa’s own, slick and warm where they touch, from the sweat that they’d worked up.

“So hot,” he murmurs, and then repeats it as he leans down to lick a stripe from Mousa’s navel all the way up to his sternum. Goosebumps break out on Mousa’s skin and he retaliates by squeezing Jan’s ass. Hard. _He thinks he's got the upperhand now_ , Jan thinks, _he really does_. He'll fix that.

“I’m gonna wreck you,” he murmurs lowly to a smirking Mousa, once he's got his mouth right up at the shell of Mousa's right ear, “You should be glad we don’t have training tomorrow because you’re not gonna be walking anywhere, Mous. I’m gonna wake up and fuck you again and again until you can’t get out of bed.” He watches with satisfaction as Mousa licks his lips and as his eyes grow dark and hooded.

“All talk and no action,” Mousa retorts, once he’s recovered from Jan’s words, “Are you gonna fuck me or do I have to do everything around here?” His hand drifts down to grasp both his and Jan’s hard, leaking dicks in a firm hold, just this side of painful. It exhilarates Jan. Mousa’s usually not this rough, but then again, Jan had never known that he was kinky enough to get all riled up by an angry Mousa either.

Jan braces his weight on one palm precariously, and leans towards the bottom of the coffee table, just enough to brush at a tube of lubricant which he’d stashed there just a week ago. He’d felt vaguely guilty while doing it last week, but he’s never been more thankful for it than now. Just when he grasps at it though, he loses his balance and tips over, tumbling roughly down onto the carpet and dragging an irked Mousa along with him. Mousa makes an exaggeratedly irritated noise even though Jan’s the one who’s taken most of the impact, but he recovers quickly and situates himself comfortably on top of Jan, legs folded on either side of Jan’s thighs.

“Looks like I’ve got to do the work myself.” He snatches the tube of lubricant, where it lies abandoned on the carpet beside them, and pops it open to coat his fingers with a generous amount of goop. Jan lies there, unable to do anything but watch with hungry eyes, as Mousa shifts onto his knees and reaches behind himself. His eyes flutter closed in vague discomfort. Jan’s palms slide up Mousa’s flank, and he drinks in the muscles that stand out starkly on Mousa’s torso, his solid forearms and the breadth of his shoulders. The tiny gasps of breath that Mousa is making as he fucks himself with his fingers are irresistible. Mousa’s dick is flushed and dark and brushing up against Jan’s own, and Jan wraps his palm around it just to hear Mousa’s low moan. It’s amazing how after all these years, he can still elicit these impassioned little reactions from Moussa. He’s so beautiful, throat gleaming wetly with Jan’s saliva and abdominal muscles tense with a discomfort that’s slowly morphing into pleasure. He’s all _Jan’s_.

He doesn’t realize that he’s said the last part out loud until Mousa, pausing his ministrations, looks down at him fondly.

“Fortunately or unfortunately, yes. All yours.” When he resumes the motion of his fingers, Jan is frustrated that he can’t see him working himself open, all nice and pretty, to take Jan’s dick. Just thinking about fucking into Mousa, over and over, everything warm and slick and tight around him, is enough to make him groan again.

He leans up a little from his place on the carpet, the muscles in his core straining from his weight up, to slide his palms to Mousa’s behind and slap his ass once, twice, satisfied by the firm thwack that echoes in the living room. Mousa’s ass is a thing of wonder, he thinks. Just as muscled and thick and firm as the rest of him. He remembers the tube of lubricant beside him belatedly and reaches to coat a finger with the cool gel. When he reaches behind Mousa this time, he fumbles around until he feels where Mousa’s own fingers are making quick, jerky movements, and just feeling the motion of it makes Jan’s dick jump. Mousa evidently notices, because his smile gains a tinge of complacency and he momentarily pauses the movement of his fingers. Instead, he reaches out with his free hand to stroke his own dick and Jan’s together in one hand with a smooth, twisting movement that really does it for Jan.

When Jan tries to ease in a slick finger into Mousa alongside two of Mousa’s own, Mousa pauses and shifts his weight on Jan. But when Jan strokes his flank with a gentle palm, he relaxes again. And then tugs at his lower lip with his teeth as Jan’s finger joins his own in getting him ready.

“Fuck, Mousa, you’re so tight. I can’t wait to get inside you.” A litany of nonsense escapes his mouth amidst the haze of arousal that’s clouding his mind but Mousa clearly isn’t displeased with it, because his pupils blow up even more and he jerks back into Jan’s fingers, eager for more. Mousa is slick from the lube and impossibly hot around his fingers and after a couple of minutes, Jan just can’t take it anymore. Preparation is very important to him, but he’ll be damned if he waited a second longer to get his dick in Mousa. He yanks his finger out, displacing both of Mousa’s at the same time, and the abruptness of it causes Mousa to make a tiny, pained sound.

“Sorry,” he breathes, “sorry.” Mousa shakes his head and that small smile is back, the smile that he reserves just for Jan. It turns devious after a second.

“You should be sorry only because you’re just lying there like a dead fish.”

Jan laughs, but doesn't disagree. With his hands on Mousa’s hips, shifts his heavy weight around until he’s straddling Jan’s hips comfortably. Mousa slaps his hands away when they reach for his own dick and instead, with a look of intense concentration, squirts more lube onto his palm, slicks Jan’s dick up and lines it up against his entrance. It feels absolutely amazing, his dick slipping and sliding against Mousa's rim, before it finally enters him. Mousa lowers himself down carefully, inch by inch, taking Jan in so good, like he was made to take his dick. And perhaps he was, Jan thinks, in a fervour of arousal and urgency. His own mouth is parted with pleasure and all he can do is breathe hard with every one of Mousa's downward movements.

“Dead fish, see?” Mousa grins, once he’s settled himself onto Jan’s dick. Jan can barely even come up with words, much less a coherent reply to that, because Mousa is incredibly tight, and so warm and Jan thinks he’s going to come in about approximately five seconds. He takes a few deep breaths, but before he can settle himself, Mousa raises himself up with a palm on Jan’s chest and then lowers himself onto Jan’s dick again, moaning at the stretch. The feeling is divine, but Mousa’s no tiny man and Jan gasps for breath just for a second as Mousa's palm presses down heavily on his chest and restricts his breath. This clearly tickles Mousa though, and his lips stretch wide over those perfect teeth, cheek dimpling endearingly with the motion.

“Oh, Jan,” Mousa snickers, “I forgot for a while there that you were a beanpole.”

And hey, this is an affront, a clear smearing of Jan’s good name, because Jan is not as well-built as Mousa (who really is? he thinks), but he’s reasonably muscular himself, he’s made sure of that with multiple trips to the gym over the past decade, and he’ll be damned if he lets Mousa get away with that little jab.

“Beanpole, huh?” He murmurs, locking his gaze with Mousa’s own, and deliberately pistoning his hips up in a quick, rough motion. Mousa’s lips, swollen and reddened from Jan’s teeth, part, and he makes a choked off gasp and stabilizes himself with a palm on Jan’s side this time. It's awfully considerate of him, Jan manages to think amusedly.

Jan takes this moment of disorientation to grasp Mousa by the waist roughly and flip them around so that he lands with a little thump on the carpeted floor and Jan looms above him. He's breathing a little harder with the effort of that maneuver, but it's completely worth the view he has of Mousa underneath him now. Before Mousa can recover, he hikes one of his thick thighs high up around his waist (Mousa’s more flexible than he looks, really), braces himself with a hand on the floor by Mousa’s head and then pulls out almost entirely before pushing back in roughly. Mousa’s broken little moan is music to Jan’s ears and his mouth pools involuntarily with saliva as he takes in the sensation of warmth and heat everywhere around him.

“F-fuck… Jan-“ Mousa’s words are cut off with another low and desperate moan as Jan leans over him, bracing himself on his forearm now, and starts fucking into him in earnest. The friction is devastating and he stops pulling out of Mousa entirely, instead pushing into him roughly with short, practised strokes. Mousa’s nails are sharp against his back and his thighs squeeze around Jan’s waist in regular little motions.

The little ‘umph’ ‘umphs’ that Mousa makes from that impact of his thrusts pepper the quiet of the room. Mousa's eyes are wide and glassy with arousal as Jan pounds into him ad the rapturous look in them spurs Jan on. The carpet must be uncomfortable and rough against Mousa’s back, as it was against Jan’s moments ago, but he doesn’t complain, even as his body is shoved forward and backward against the carpet repeatedly with the strength of Jan’s thrusts. When Jan leans down to kiss Mousa gently and chastely, at odds with the rough manner in which he’s fucking him, _wrecking_ him, Mousa licks into his lips with a reciprocal sweetness. Jan’s heart squeezes just a little and he’s suddenly overcome with affection for Mousa, who’s taking him like he was made for Jan, like he wouldn’t be complete without Jan.

“Fuck, babe,” Jan pants against his mouth, and his thrusts become erratic as he chases his own release, so close and getting closer with every thrust into Mousa’s now pliant body. Mousa, in the beginning, had been thrusting back against Jan as vigorously as Jan'd been pushing into him, but he’s content now to wrap his arms and legs around Jan in a vise-like grip and hang on for the ride. He makes ridiculously attractive little broken groans whenever Jan shifts his angle and hits something deep inside of him.

“I’m getting there, Mousa,” he murmurs into Mousa’s ear, nipping at the shell of it and tasting the salt of his sweat. “I’m gonna come. You’re gonna make me come, you have no idea how good you feel.”

Mousa just stares back at him with dark, hooded eyes, replying only with intermittent sharp gasps as Jan changes the pace of his thrusts. Sweat slicks his temples and plasters his curls against them. He looks absolutely debauched.

“Do you want me to come inside you, Mousa?”

Mousa’s eyes darken just a little bit more and he bites his lip in answer.

“I’m gonna fill you up, Mous, you’re going to take all of it.”

Mousa pulls him back down into a savage kiss, all teeth and tongue, in response, and Jan is so close, he’s thrusting without rhythm or a fixed pace into Mousa now, desperate to get to that feeling that’s hovering so close. He wraps a hand around Mousa’s bobbing, flushed dick and pulls at it roughly, maybe a little too roughly, but Mousa only groans louder and pushes back onto his dick .

It only takes two more wild, sloppy thrusts and he’s coming inside of Mousa, body electric with the exquisite feeling of it and mind imprinted with an image of Mousa just like this beneath him, sweaty, dishevelled and panting from taking Jan’s dick.

He leans down to kiss Mousa, this time soft and wet, and then he gingerly pulls out, wincing at the over-stimulation of it now that the euphoria of his release has passed. Mousa moans in disappointment and his muscled forearm lifts up to cover his eyes.

“Please, Jan. C’mon.”

Jan hasn’t forgotten about Mousa though. He has plans for him. He shimmies down Mousa’s body, careful to protect his own sensitive dick from rubbing up against the carpet, and takes Mousa’s dick, which is pearled with pre-cum, into his mouth. He suckles at the flushed head of it, chuckling as Mousa’s thighs come to clamp down around his neck, nearly suffocating him in the process. He holds them at bay with hands stroking around the girth of them until they ease up in their grip.

Mousa’s making those broken little sounds again now, and Jan can’t help but to ease his mouth off Mousa’s dick, which elicits a moan of protest from him, and then trail it down to his flushed and swollen rim, where Jan’s come is slowly trickling out. Mousa’s shocked groan seals the deal. He uses his finger to trace the sticky trail of come that’s leaking out of Mousa and then push it back into him. Then, he nuzzles against the swollen rim and licks into it with a vigour that he hadn’t thought he’d possess after his own climax. Guess those extra training rounds with Mousa during the Spurs’ sessions had helped after all, he thinks disconnectedly.

Mousa’s hips jerk up off the floor and when Jan pauses and looks up, his forearm is held even more tightly against his eyes and his teeth are digging into his lower lip.

“Look at me, Mous”, Jan mutters, and Mousa obliges. His eyes are wet with the stimulation of it all and his skin is bronze and gleaming with sweat. He looks like a Greek God, Jan thinks reverently.

“Jan, c’mon.” Mousa is helpless to conjure any other words, but Jan is more than okay with that.

He resumes licking into the wet heat of Mousa, tasting himself, and feeling a small, sluggish jolt of arousal shoot through his belly again. His palm, slick with sweat, wraps around Mousa’s dick again to jerk him off in a steady motion and as he shapes his tongue into a point and delves inside Mousa once more, Mousa comes abruptly and all over Jan’s hair. Jan can feel it sliding down onto his forehead and down the back of his neck. He wipes what he can off with a little snicker and then wipes again at his mouth with the back of his hand, before sliding up lazily to put his full weight on Mousa and slump against him. Mousa’s eyes are closed and he’s panting like he’s just run a marathon. Close enough. Sex with him is probably close to a marathon, Jan thinks to himself a little cockily.

“Who’s a dead fish?” he manages to ask Mousa, even as he feels his eyes closing with sudden exhaustion. The adrenaline has completely fled his body now, and his limbs feel like jelly with the exertion from before.

“You.” Moussa mutters, looking pretty out of it still. And then cracks open one eye to survey Jan, who’s still smirking at him. “Okay, maybe not all the time” he admits, and then closes his eyes again, but not before anchoring Jan in place, on top of him, with a heavy arm around his shoulders. He doesn't complain about Jan's weight, seems to welcome it even. Jan drops his cheek to Mousa's warm chest and sighs when Mousa's hand comes to cup the back of his head gently.

“Shower?” Jan asks, mouth moving against warm, salty skin, even though he thinks he won’t be able to move for another ten minutes at least. Judging from how hard he’d fucked Mousa earlier, Mousa wouldn’t be able to move for another twenty, probably.

When Mousa doesn't answer, Jan asks, just to test the waters, "Can you get mad like that again more often?"

“Mrhh shhh, Jan, shhhh,” is Mousa’s reply, and his fingers gently card through Jan's hair in a lulling motion that's sure to put Jan to sleep. Jan thinks he wouldn’t mind coming home to him for a long, long time, and ending the day just like this. With Mousa warm underneath him and his arms, strong and firm around Jan’s back. Sure, Mousa may be sexy when he’s angry, but nothing quite beats this side of him. Sleepy and fucked out and beautiful in all his vulnerability, radiating enough warmth to keep both of them warm despite the chill that’s begun to pervade the room. He feels like home, and Jan thinks that he wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in rarepair hell tbh. The existing fics for this pair are absolutely glorious but it'd also be great if any of y'all could write more :') also, hmu if y'all know any good emre can/leroy sane or de bruyne/sane fics. If not, my next one is gonna be a de bruyne/sane fic, if any of y'all are into that.


End file.
